


Sunday Mornings

by thatclutzsarahh



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 13:01:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3611016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatclutzsarahh/pseuds/thatclutzsarahh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A ficlet of the moments you can't have your cake an eat it, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday Mornings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bee and Alex-the commanders of my ships](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Bee+and+Alex-the+commanders+of+my+ships).



Knowing Sebastian is like….having a guilty pleasure.

It’s that same feeling you get when you want that large slice of cheesecake, despite knowing your waist and your friends say you shouldn’t. Sebastian is the bad idea that’s already happened, and until the earthquake ends, you might as well enjoy the ride. He is her guilty pleasure-he is her extra moment in the shower when she knows she has to get out, that cozy moment in her bed despite knowing she will be late the next morning. He is that chocolate pie in the market that you chose because even though you know lemon is better for your health, it will never taste the same as chocolate pie and ice cream on a couch with a glass of wine.

Sebastian is that.

He stays only on Sundays, after a short and private almost date the prior evening. She tells him no smoking in the house so he goes onto the balcony, only to leave open the French doors so it can waft inside. He doesn’t make breakfast nor does he try to, the man is of few but very distinguished words, a quiet military sort of man, by the time she wakes up in the morning his clothes are neatly folded in the corner, his hair smells like her shampoo and he is clean. Despite the man he is, he is a clean one, clean cut, clean smelling, clean person. He is her Sunday mornings in Paris, her Sunday mornings in Rome. She hates to say he follows her there, but it is a clockwork part of his existence, he is the wave that will always kiss the shore.

She doesn’t save his number in her phone, and it is vice versa for him. They keep in touch only briefly to mention something smart-a witty poster, a snarky sign, for a man with so much ego he is surprisingly humble in his messages. She knows partly why, the tender moments only last so long for the two of them, they work opposite ends of the spectrum. She is a law woman and he an outlaw, and his soft spoken words on a mobile means they’ve know clue it could be him. They are never mentioned by name. She does not talk about this, and he, despite his cassanova romance, keeps it to himself as well.

They never discuss work.

In the same way the trees don’t tell the wind to stop its abuse, Anthea and Sebastian never mention their jobs. It is partly because they spend so little time together and partly because that kind of talk has no place resting on a pillow or on a board game, half played, pieces strewn. They recognize an elephant when they see it, acknowledge it’s existence but choose deliberately to ignore it, as if blissful ignorance solves their problems. Anthea is too different for him, and Sebastian is a brief encounter for her. Like the edges of a firefly, they flicker into existence 52 times a year, not much, not enough and far too often all at the same time. They risk nothing but both wish, secretly, to lose everything. And for one night they do and in one afternoon they gather themselves up to prepare themselves the week ahead. Empty, vacant, silent.

They understand, some day, it will end. But for the pair, they know that ending not today, not this moment, not here. Together they carry their strides one by one, day by day, moment by moment, not long enough to consider the repercussions of such illicit behavior. Or perhaps they do and simply ignore it, a cozy ignorance perferred over the harsh and blatant reality that one day, Anthea or Sebastian will leave and not come back. There will be no one to knock on a door at eight pm on a Saturday night, bouquet in hand. There will be no flat with windows facing east to open doors to wide to smoke in front of. They take what they can right now because what else can one do? Their strides are short and often uneven, but they take them together. At least for this moment.

Because having Sebastian, is like know the trainwreck is coming and taking the wheel to make sure it happens.


End file.
